Each word continues to mean exactly the right thing
And it’s been put in just the right place;
But somehow, the dots and iotas have run off:
Damming up the spaces between double-Ls;
And slicing through the Cs, leaving behind
Exceptionally exaggerated Es.
Just a dot, no more than an iota,
But every one with a mind of its own,
Letting the relationships fall askew.
The poet keeps writing,
For each letter and word is good,
And the composition very good.
Its cries and pains he takes as his own.